


the next step

by keepurselfalive



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Getting Together, M/M, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 04:58:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19311088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepurselfalive/pseuds/keepurselfalive
Summary: Whenever Freddie or Brian is the focus of unwelcome attention, the other is ready to step in, lean in so close that their noses brush while a hand splays possessively over the other's shoulder. It works and they've been doing it for a long time, but it's true that it happens a lot. Maybe more often than it used to.





	the next step

If it weren't for Roger – Roger and his well-meaning tendency to stick his nose even where it doesn't belong,  _particularly_  where it doesn't belong – Brian thinks it would have taken him a lot longer to work out. But there is Roger, and there's Roger's off-handed little comment over a bowl of cereal: “You kind of do it a lot, yeah?”

Roger doesn't ever do anything off-handed, so something in Brian sits up and actually pays attention.

They do do it a lot. Whenever Freddie or Brian is the focus of unwelcome attention, the other is ready to step in, lean in so close that their noses brush while a hand splays possessively over the other's shoulder. It works and they've been doing it for a long time, but it's true that it happens a lot. Maybe more often than it used to.

It doesn’t necessarily have to mean anything.

 

* * *

 

It's one of those clubs with the music too loud and the lights flashing until Brian sees spots whenever he blinks. It's the kind of club Freddie loves, and he usually manages to rope John onto the dance floor if they played a show before.

Brian prefers to stay on the sidelines, watching and laughing with Roger while they sip their beers. There are a lot of people tonight; it must be a weekend. It startles Brian that he's not really able to tell, the days on tour all blurring into one long winding road of people and faces and places. At least it's a dark club, so the risk of them being recognized are fairly low. It doesn't stop their security from looming with their arms crossed, frowns a clear warning.

Roger’s talking about something that Brian thinks would make sense if he hadn’t skipped out on his band’s earlier smoking session. He had still needed to call Miami about some business thing, though, and by the time he got back, the others were already loose-limbed and smiling, the sweet scent of marijuana still all around them, Freddie’s pupils blown when he managed to focus on Brian. It’s one of those things that pass quickly.

“So, a kitten,” Roger says suddenly. It’s the first thing that makes it through the thick noise of the music and into Brian’s consciousness. He jerks his gaze away from the dance floor.

“What?” he asks.

“A small one,” Roger clarifies. “Very young, so it won’t mind the bus.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Brian asks.

Roger gives him a patient look, and he doesn’t look high anymore, but with Roger, it’s not always easy to tell. “A bus kitten,” Roger clarifies. “We discussed it earlier, weren’t you there?”

“A bus kitten.” Brian counts out the beat in his head, moves his index finger in time to it, but even after five, six, seven taps, it doesn’t make much sense. Or, it does, but in a way that he isn’t sure he wants to examine too closely. “When did you discuss that?”

“Backstage,” Roger says. “After the show, when we were smoking. A dog would be too hard to keep locked up like that, but cats are smaller. And cuter. And a pet on the bus would be great. Plus Freddie misses his cats.”

“That’s cruelty to animals,” Brian says.

“You miss your dog,” Roger replies, instead of a decent answer. Brian sort of does, at times; the split with Chrissie went as well as those things can be expected to go, but she was very clear about wanting to keep their dog, and given how much time he spent on tour, there wasn’t really anything Brian could say that would turn the tables in his favor. He still doesn’t know how Freddie managed to keep all his cats, quite a few of which were rescued with exes, leaving them with some people at Garden Lodge whenever they hit the road. Freddie’s pretty good at sharing with people he loves, though, so once he caught Brian’s wistful glance at Tiffany, he grinned and offered to add a dash and a ‘May’ to all the cats' last names.

Which brings Brian back to Roger’s comment this morning. He frowns.

“What?” Roger asks, appearing a lot more focused all of a sudden.

Brian shakes his head and shrugs. He looks at the dance floor to find Freddie talking to a guy, his hair brushing Freddie’s shoulder as he leans in to say something over the music. He’s not wearing a top. Brian’s about to turn away and take another sip of his beer, let Freddie have his fun,when he notices Freddie glancing at him, just a short, searching look out of the corner of his eye.

Roger’s shoulder knocks against Brian’s. “You going over?” he asks.

Brian doesn’t really know what to say to that because yeah, of course he is. Freddie never had to do more than ask. Sometimes, he didn’t even have to do that.

Brian sets his beer down on the counter and crosses over to Freddie, and to the bloke who has his hand on Freddie’s shoulder. Brian wonders if he thinks he’s being subtle. Freddie is smiling at him before Brian is even close enough to speak, immediately tilting towards him, and Brian drapes his arm around Freddie’s waist and smiles brightly, pressing his lips to Freddie’s cheek before he glances at the guy as if noticing him for the first time. “Hi,” he says.

The man's smile is careful and rather uncertain. “Hi.”

“Want to get out of here?” Brian asks Freddie. “The music is giving me a headache.” He tightens his arm around Freddie’s waist, feels Freddie’s stomach expand on an inhalation. There is something like a headache lingering behind Brian’s eyes, pressing down on his vision. Freddie leans back into him.

“Of course, darling,” he says, and his voice is lowered to something like a purr. Brian barely notices the guy taking a step back, maybe surprised or put out or something else, and either way, Brian couldn’t care less. He’s not sure if this was ever really about him, or if it was really just about feeling Freddie’s warmth against him, about an excuse to wrap his fingers around Freddie’s wrist and press down.

He’s so fucking screwed.

 

* * *

 

It’s not awkward. They take a cab back, John and Roger staying at the club with security watching them, and it’s not awkward. Nothing’s changed. They sit together in the backseat, and Brian has no problems deciding what to do with his hands, and he doesn’t glance at Freddie out of the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t.

Brian forgot his beer on the counter, and he’s not having an epiphany.

“Brian?” Freddie asks, voice tinted blue by the night and the street passing in moments highlighted by streetlamps. He follows it up with a yawn.

“Roger said something about getting a bus cat,” Brian says, a little rushed. He knows Freddie will see through it right away, knows Freddie will call him on it because that’s just who they are.

There’s a pause. “Yeah,” Freddie says. “It was just, you know. One of those ideas. Like when Roger wanted to steal a rabbit from the pet store when we lived in that old flat, never mind we could barely afford to feed ourselves, let alone an animal.”

“They were soft,” Brian offers. Freddie’s profile is sharp against the city night lights outside, light glinting off the ridge of his nose. “I'm glad he never did though, because you know the bastard would have made you and I take care of it,” Brian adds quickly.

Freddie’s chuckle barely makes it over the rumbling engine, and then the cab pulls into the parking lot, the bus looming ahead, only the light in the driver’s cabin turned on. Still two hours until they’re set to leave again.

The bus is silent when they climb in, chokingly silent, almost. Brian turns on all the lights, and Freddie trails quietly in his wake, tired and restless at once. Some of Freddie’s best lyrics crawled out of his head in a state like that; too restless to sleep and too tired to over-analyze. When Freddie collapses on the couch and immediately grabs John’s notebook (Roger’s notebook?) off the couch table, Brian fits himself to Freddie’s side and closes his eyes. It’s been a while since Freddie claimed he needed space to write; now, he needs someone else to be there to write.

Brian can be that someone. And that’s as far as he’ll allow his thoughts to go.

He listens to the scratch of Freddie’s (John’s) pen for a while, hums something like agreement when Freddie reads out a line that Brian is too tired to comprehend. He’ll understand tomorrow, he will. Freddie’s soft laugh hums along Brian’s collarbone, and Brian twists closer and just… falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

They’re moving when he wakes up, leaving again, on to another city. The lights are off, and Brian’s alone on the couch.

It’s no big deal. He couldn’t expect Freddie to stay with him; sleeping on the couch always leads to painful awakenings and even now, Brian can already feel a stiff knot of tension lodged in the back of his neck. He didn’t expect Freddie to stay, really, he didn't.

It’s just… Freddie usually does, though.

Brian sits up and stretches properly, but the tension is still lingering between his shoulder blades. Just then, there’s the sound of running water in the bathroom, everything else silent except for the low hum of the tires on the road. Freddie returns to the living room a moment later, moving quietly, an even darker shape against the dark outlines of the cabinets and the door leading to the bunks.

“Hey,” Brian mumbles.

Freddie pauses his steps, then comes over the rest of the way and sinks back down onto the couch, beside Brian. “Hey,” he replies. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“’s fine, Fred.” Brian sighs and sits up properly. His pinkie is touching the seam of Freddie’s jeans, and he doesn’t notice because nothing’s changed. It’s just them. It’s what they do. “We should probably go to bed, yeah?”

Freddie hesitates for a moment, but maybe that’s just a delay provided by Brian’s sleep-hazy brain. “Yeah,” he says eventually. He doesn’t get up, though, and neither does Brian. Brian presses his knuckles into the sockets of his eyes, and when he opens them again, he finds that Freddie is watching him, unreadable in the dim glow of the passing streetlights.

“What?” Brian asks softly.

After a moment, Freddie shakes his head. “Nothing, dear,” he says. “Let’s get some sleep, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Brian says, and it feels like he missed something, but he’s not sure what it is, and he thinks he’s probably still half-dreaming anyway.

 

* * *

 

Make-up people are supposed to lean close and touch their faces, Brian knows that. However, make-up people are not supposed to breathe hotly into his ear and brush his chest as they cover up the imperfections of his skin. 

The make-up woman’s hand slides down the side of his neck as she leans in to spread concealer beneath his right eye. Brian blinks and tries to catch Freddie’s gaze. Freddie isn’t looking, though. He has his head tipped back, and there are dark shadows underneath his eyes. Brian doesn’t think Freddie will save him, not this time.

It should be fine. Inconvenient, but fine. Instead, it makes Brian’s chest clench even as he draws a deep breath into his lungs.

Freddie’s gaze flickers over to him. They hold the contact for a moment, and Freddie is next in line, still waiting, so he could get up any time to come over, skim his knuckles over the back of Brian’s neck, give the woman a hard glare to make her back off.

“Is there still time for me to grab some tea?” Freddie asks instead.

“Sure,” the make-up woman says. Freddie smiles tightly and gets up, leaving the room without even glancing back. Brian watches the tense line of his shoulders in the mirror, and the next time the woman’s hands brush his chest, going so far as to reach inside his shirt, he levels a glare at her. She doesn’t do it again.

 

* * *

 

“You didn’t come for me,” Brian tells Freddie’s cheek, and then he smiles because the photographer gives them the sign. He hopes it won’t come out as strained, as unhappy and unbalanced as it feels.

“What, did she force herself on you?” Freddie hisses, his tone scathing. 

“No, you twat,” Brian says. “But I was  _counting_  on you, and you weren't there.” Another smile, another, and then they’re separated for the single shots.

 

* * *

 

Freddie slinks away to the bunks almost as soon as they get back to the bus. Brian could take the hint, but he doesn’t feel like it.

He hates change.

Freddie’s curtains are drawn, of course they are. Brian slides in regardless, fitting himself to the line of Freddie’s back, and he ignores how it takes Freddie a moment to relax against him. “Freddie,” Brian says.

Freddie sighs and seems to curl into himself, except there isn’t anywhere for him to go, not with the wall in front of him and Brian plastered to his back. “It’s,” Freddie begins, then falls silent again.

“She backed off easily enough, once I glared at her,” Brian says, mostly to fill the silence. He can hear Roger shouting at the TV, and then John’s triumphant whoop.

“I’m not your safety net whenever you don’t feel like talking to someone,” Freddie says. The words are perfectly clear, but Brian isn’t sure Freddie is making any sense at all.

“You’re not—” he starts.

Freddie cuts him off with a tight, gloomy, “John talked to me, the other day.”

“You, too?” Brian asks, surprised. He probably shouldn’t be surprised. “Roger mentioned something. Over breakfast, yesterday.”

“So,” Freddie says. Brian isn’t sure what to make of that, and there’s a bit of daylight trickling in through the curtain, but all he can make out are the slight curls at the nape of Freddie’s neck. It doesn’t clear things up, but it makes Brian want to touch. Touch more. He doesn’t even know.

“So?” he asks.

Freddie makes an unhappy noise, and then he twists around until he’s facing Brian, their noses brushing. Brian feels Freddie exhale. “You’re not my safety net,” Brian says, because Freddie interrupted him before he got a chance earlier.

“Then what?” Freddie’s voice is low, hardly more than a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Brian says. It’s the truth.

Freddie kisses him.

In the back of his mind, Brian thinks he should be surprised. He’s not, though, not in the least because maybe he’s been waiting for a long time and this, right here with Freddie pressed up against him and the bunks like the blanket forts they built in that old dingy flat, when they were younger, sharing secrets in the semi-darkness… It’s been coming for a long time, and it doesn’t feel so much like change as it feels like the next step.

Brian angles forward and pushes Freddie’s mouth open with his tongue. Freddie doesn’t even try to resist. He slumps back against the mattress and Brian follows, drapes himself over Freddie’s chest and keeps him pinned down with the weight of his own body. Freddie’s half-choked moan that Brian doesn’t quite manage to swallow is new, unfamiliar, and Brian listens to it reverberate.

Just out of curiosity, he grinds down a little. Freddie surges up, their hips knocking together, and Brian is half-hard already, realizes it the moment Freddie’s stomach brushes up against him. He’s gasping helplessly, trying to get closer, pulling at Freddie’s shirt even as he refuses to stop kissing him.

“Not in the bunks,” John says, right beside them.

Brian pulls away with a startled jerk, and Freddie’s eyes fly open. The curtain swings aside to reveal Roger’s amused grin, John’s smug smirk. Brian fucking  _hates_  them at this moment. “There are rules about that sort of thing, you know?” John adds. “We all agreed to them.”

“Fuck the rules,” Freddie growls, and that shouldn’t be hot, Freddie being irritated about not getting to—Okay, yeah. Okay, it is hot. Very much so, and Brian is grinning because he can’t help it. Freddie frowns up at him. “What?” he asks.

“There’s always later,” Brian says. He thinks they should probably talk – about what this means, about what it will change about their friendship, if it will change anything at all. Brian is actually hoping it will change something. Not the important parts, but. He likes kissing Freddie. He likes Freddie’s warmth under him, likes the slightly hectic flush on Freddie’s cheeks and the erratic rise and fall of his chest. He has so much he wants to touch, and taste, and explore. He wants Freddie to be his, really, and he wants to belong to Freddie just the same. 

“Yeah?” Freddie asks.

Brian grins, and Roger and John are still watching with smugly superior expressions, but Brian dips his head anyway for a brief kiss, nothing but the gentle touch of lips on lips. It took them a long time to get here; a few hours more won’t make much of a difference.

“Yeah,” he says, and maybe he means,  _I’m not going anywhere_ , but he thinks that Freddie already knows that part.


End file.
